


Permitted

by ahimsabitches



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Free Verse Poetry, Gen, prose poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches





	Permitted

What is my

name? Who am

I? Desziond? There is an Altairnate

reality here I think. I smell old stone and cinnamon. Spicy

air and spicy places; the vanilla soothe of old

Books!

 

cold caverns and catacombs and cities which are your face

carved into my story

into my face into my

 

bookbound memory.

 

Who am I? [ _the most interesting man in_

_your life]_

My life(ves) are a shining Apple

perched upon a spinning disc—glyphed time–I remember killing blades

and snow and stone, cold

things

and the swoop of

fear

as my humble broken hands

touched the keening runes of blood

on Yusuf’s chest.

Cold.

Hot things, the surety of her breath and

the scrape of her

skin

 

(a written thing I haven’t yet read but oh desperately want to please oh)

  
(the spice of her smile is much more delicious and

brutal than the plain vanilla spike up my nose when I

inhale the paper)

 

across the book and bound to it she is. I am bound in calfskin to her.

 

Why did you go

on little ratpaws?

You forgot to

shut your black eyes.

So I shut them for you

betrayer/abbas/ahmet

 

Masyaf. A word I know three times well

three times written, needed

three times sung in beaded

blood on my blade and the crack of bombshell.

 

assassin/ezio.

 

Mastery of memory and return to wholeness are a paltry trade for

encoded white tulips.

They burn my

hands and my brain smokes to ash be

–cause…

be

 

cause basic physics do not an end to the storm make.

How could a failsafe program lead me to a lighthouse? But here I am, Desszzzio.

Or is it

Masyaf?

 

Storms lead me to fire and fire leads me to

blood.

Blood burns and

sings and blood

is an old man who sits in a café and

writes stories

upon which young Death

sharpens her red scythe.

 

What are we

[ _altaireziodesmondsofiayusufmasyaf_ ]

but the stories we tell ourselves? What are we, oh, 

my love, but simply

permitted?


End file.
